Expression
by MyFirstPenNameWasTaken
Summary: All human. Oneshot. Rose is suffering from an eating disorder and other mental illnesses, and Mason is a photographer in university. For an assignment, Rose decides to help him. He assumes that she will pretend to be sick, not knowing that her sickness is real, or that he will learn what it means to capture art. Used to be called Hunger.


**A/N: ** Was previously entitled "Hunger". This has been reposted. ** Meshed it all up in a one-shot. I'm sorry if this offends you in any way. Kind of long, too. Also I'm aware that the title sucks.**

* * *

><p><strong>Expression <strong>

**Mason**

"I think I'm going to do addiction. Hoarding, specifically. Have you ever seen the show? It makes me cry almost every time. Can you imagine? Being buried alive in useless crap you believe is needed, and too far in denial to do anything about it." Mia licks foam off of her lip from her cappuccino from Starbucks.

We're sitting on a bench in the heart of Ryerson's campus, waiting for the day to end, and discussing Stan's new assignment. We check our watches and wait for the day to end.

Not that it matters, anyway. Even though class is supposed to be over in less than a minute, our professor Stan dismissed us early with a new assignment.

I don't worry much about it. I know I will hand my assignment in with confidence. I'm going to start working on it the second I get home.

It's not like these kind of things please me, it's just that it's finally something different. It's something shocking, interesting, deep, and meaningful, something worth putting effort into.

Ryerson University does not have a terrible reputation. It has a very good reputation, but it is not prestigious.

How can a university known for its art be prestigious?

Being a visual arts student sounded fun, I remember, but I've been going here for three months and we've had a total of two assignments, and all were totally and completely boring.

Art is exciting.

How am I supposed to create something magical with something totally tedious, dull, something not art?

But this, oh, this is something I am sure to have fun with.

It started with anger. Stan's anger, to be exact.

_His small but fit frame is aggressively shuffling through colourful papers on his desk, when the majority of the class enters the classroom. His face is red and his light brown hair is messy and sticking to his forehead from sweat._

_When we take our seats, we wait patiently waiting to see what's got him so worked up. When the low murmurs from the students quiet Stan stills._

_He looks up at us._

_He looks angry._

_"What is this?" he says quietly, holding up the colourful sheets of paper._

_Closer inspection informs us that he is holding our art assignments from the previous week, where we had to photograph fruit. Yes, fruit. I don't think Stan knows this, but that has been done already._

_He throws the sheets of paper at us, but not far enough to actually touch us, and we watch in stunned silence to see our work float from mid-air to the floor._

_No one makes a move to get them._

_"I said," Stan's voice has now risen, "what is this!"_

_He doesn't give us time to answer._

_He puts his hands behind his back and he angrily paces the front of the classroom, stepping on some of the assignments as he does so._

_"You call yourselves artists," he rants, "yet you can't take a picture to save your life. Art isn't all about watercolour and pastel and canvas, and how accurately you can use them. That may be a crucial part of this course, but students can take years of art in a school, and but when they graduate, they can't take or draw a decent picture to save their life. Do you know what art is about? Do you?" He puts his hands to his sides, clenching his fists tightly, waiting for an answer._

_No one gives him one._

_"And that, is a reason why all of you may possibly be failures. Art is not something you learn in school. Skill and technique is something you learn in school. How am I supposed to teach you if you come here expecting to learn how to be an artist? Art is not about the quality of a picture. It's about having an eye for things. I know that fruit is not the most interesting thing to photograph, but I assigned it because I wanted to see your eye for art in that camera. I wanted to see you capturing the light in the most perfect way; I wanted to see you capture the whole photo in its most natural way, because art is natural and not artificial. You don't create it, you discover it, and express it."_

_He takes a deep breath, and he seems calmer because his voice is no longer screaming. He turns and walks towards his desk with a purpose, and starts to rummage through a drawer._

_He pulls out a picture frame._

_It looks damaged, and old. It is obviously made, it is the kind you make in elementary school with popsicle sticks, but the sides are black and curdled like someone took a match to it, but didn't burn it fully._

_Stan is quiet for a moment, staring at the frame. His face is slack, all anger gone, and he looks distant, far away. He doesn't look like our short, middle-aged, temperamental professor, he looks like someone a lot softer._

_He is obviously reliving some memory, back to where he was that soft man we will never meet. He runs his fingers lightly over the front of the frame. We can't see the photograph. Then he turns it._

_I can see that it is a photo of an older teenage girl and a young boy, but that's all that I can make out._

_The glass covering her photo is smashed._

_But not removed, as if someone purposely smashed it, but couldn't bring themselves to get rid of it. There is too much damage done to the frame for any of it to be accidental._

_"This," Stan says softly, "is my older sister. When I was twelve, she was fifteen and she was my best friend. She is dead. She was killed, the night this photo was taken."_

_There is a sharp intake of breath from the crowd but no question for details._

_I'm pretty sure this isn't in teacher protocol._

_"Don't be fooled by the beautiful photos you see, whether they are sketched, painted, or taken on camera. Beauty is not a synonym for art. I am not saying that there is beauty in death, or murder, but I think that some of the feelings it can cause it considered art. Not many people share my opinion. I still stand by it, though. Do you know why? Because as I said before, art is expressed. It is strong emotion, expressed through music, dancing, photos, writing, it doesn't matter. People overlook so many people who are suffering but are really just beautiful pieces of art. Why do people choose to close their eyes to a picture of a fighting solider, but will happily prattle on about a picture of balloons floating in the sky? I want you to do another assignment. Take your cameras, and go make me a booklet of a frightening concept. I don't care if it's considered as taboo, or if it's just plain sad, I want something that is easily overlooked by an ignorant society. I want to be overwhelmed with emotion when I see it. I want you to display photos to the class, and I want to watch their eyes tear. Don't capture blissful, beautiful photos that are posed and acted out. Capture art in its rawest form. I would advise you choose a topic that frightens you, or makes you uncomfortable. Don't turn away from the hard things in life; face your fears with this assignment. Life begins when you step out of your comfort zone, anyway. You all need to understand that not all art is easy to take in. You have three weeks. I want it by the first, each day late I will deduct two percent. Further details about the assignment will be posted on the class website. Class dismissed early, I won't teach a lesson to people who don't yet understand the subject. If you want to see your mark on your fruit assignments, find it on the floor."_

_As we sit there in awed silence, the only coherent thought I could form was whether or not he stepped on my assignment as he walked out of the room._

"So Mason, what do you think you're going to do yours on?" Mia asks curiously.

"I think I may do mine on mental illness and self harm," I answer honestly. I agree with Stan on using this assignment to force open our eyes to things that we find emotionally overwhelming, and mental illness and self harm are two concepts that send my heart racing when I think too deeply about it.

"Nice," Mia praises, "how are you going to do that?"

I shrug.

"I don't know, I'll find someone to help me out."

Then the day is over and Mia and I part ways.

* * *

><p><strong>Rose<strong>

My mind shoots off into its usual calculating frenzy, gathering every single calorie and carb that I've consumed today.

I keep the feelings of guilt and disgust when I feel that it is far too much.

Just so I may be reminded.

Life is not easy when you have an eating disorder. In fact, it is absolute hell.

I attempted recovery once. For an exercise we had to describe what it was like to have an eating disorder.

It all started when I decided to starve, when I decided it's a good way to lose weight. Wrong. I actually didn't lose much, for long. My metabolism slowed down. My body began to shut down when it felt the effects of malnutrition. The mental aspect of everything crept in kind of early, so I was already hooked on the starving or the binging or the purging or whatever habit I had though I soon realized that what I was doing is unhealthy and not even working. I tried to work out as well. But, soon, I couldn't. My muscles stopped cooperating. I didn't care at that point though, I just kept on starving. The slightest thing I did bruised me. I was draped in bruises. My hair fell out, nearly all of it. My skin had a gray tint to it. The only hair I seemed to grow is the facial kind. My period stopped coming. Seemed like a dream, except, I could still get pregnant. How would I ever know? I'd have to check frequently. I became so weak. My beloved grades and sports and social life disappeared.

I am not in recovery. I do, however, get treated. Though I am not as bad as I was before, I'm still hideous and tragic and diseased.

I decide that I'll go outside for a walk, so I get up from my couch in my plain New York city apartment and walk into my bedroom to get changed out of my sweats.

I peel my clothes off slowly, and stare at the bruises and scars that cover almost every inch of my skin. I put on jeans that, even though they are the smallest size at the store, hang off my hips – and they don't seem small enough. I put on a baggy sweatshirt and a light jacket intended for fall weather.

Before I reach the door, however, my phone rings.

I jog over to it and answer with a curious "hello?"

"Hey, Rose, it's Mason, how have you been?" a familiar male voices says to me in the phone.

"Whoa, hey, Mase. I've been doing alright. What's up?"

I haven't seen Mason Ashford in three years. When I last saw him, it was at our high school graduation, where he was tall and handsome and a damn good kid. Mason has bright blue eyes and adorable red hair, with soft skin dusted with light freckles. His stature is pretty healthy, and I'll admit, pretty swoon-worthy: he is filled out but not too much.

But when I was in high school, I had long thick dark hair, golden skin, and a smile I was pretty proud of. A body I was pretty proud of, too. Of course, that changed.

Has he changed?

"I, um, listen, I know it's been a while since we talked, but I wanted to ask you a favour." He says nervously.

"What do you need?" I ask easily. Even though it's been some time since we last saw each other, he was still a good friend and I would still do pretty much anything for him.

He starts explaining to me about an assignment he has for an art class, and how he wants to do it on someone with a mental illness and partakes in self harm. He wants me to model for him.

Does he know?

Why would he ask me to model for him if he didn't know? Is this his way of telling me? Mocking me? Making fun of me? Because I have enough problems and I don't need –

"…It's just that I know you're still in the city, and when we were in high school whenever I needed to shoot someone you'd always be my model because we work so well together, you know?" He finishes.

Oh.

"Um, yeah, sure Mason, I'll do it," I agree, because it isn't like I have anything else to do.

He sighs in relief.

"Thanks, Rose, this means a lot."

"Mmhmm, just remember that you're buying me coffee when the shoot is done," I tease.

He laughs, and we make plans to meet in three days at my apartment.

Three Days Later

Rose

"Rose,"

Don't do it.

It's pretty quiet in my apartment, because I live alone. It always is. The only one here is me.

"Are you hungry?"

Don't answer.

I went for a walk this morning.

"Do you want some?"

You don't need it.

Feeling good, I went to a hot dog stand and bought a jumbo hot dog.

"Don't you crave it?"

Ignore her.

It's sitting there, in front of me on a plate.

"Rose."

Shut up.

I'm sitting here.

"Rose?"

Please.

I'm hungry; I want it.

"Rose, come on, just answer."

No. Go away. No no no no.

I don't deserve it.

"Fine. But don't you think you'd feel better?"

You'd feel worse.

I don't deserve anything.

"Rose."

I pick up the hot dog and take a huge bite in one quick motion, before I can stop. Then another, then it's gone. I sit for a moment, totally fine. I'm caught in a moment of, _I had a jumbo hotdog with half the ingredients you can have, so the fuck what? _But then, so fast, my stomach rolls and Ihead for the toilet and I'm kneeling then I'm purging and I'm crying, too.

All the while the different voices that sometimes hum within me contradict each other, one congratulating me and one screaming at me and one silenced by smugness and one sighing in disappointment.

One telling me not to do it because it's not good for me.

One telling me not to do it but because I don't deserve it.

I'm too big already.

I hate the one who wants me to eat just because they know what I will do afterward.

No, wait.

I hate them all.

But I especially hate myself for being so split and letting the bad ones be the most powerful ones.

The white, dirty ceramic tiles are cold as I lay down on them and close my eyes.

* * *

><p>She reaches into a cabinet and pulls out a plain, thick manila file.<p>

"Something pleasant to think about would be that your ability to think and function in daily life may be better than those with other types of schizophrenia. I still recommend you receive treatment, however. Paranoid schizophrenia is a lifelong disease and can result in severe consequences, like suicidal behaviour. Have you been having any behaviours of the sort, Rose?"

"What kind of treatment?" I ask quietly, dodging her question. She raises a brow but doesn't push me, though I know she will.

My therapist crosses her legs, making her deep purple pencil skirt crinkle awkwardly.

"I have a psychiatrist I'd like you to see, but it's your choice as to how you would like to receive treatment. You could see a team, which would consist of your psychiatrist, family doctor, pharmacist, and so on, or you could be hospitalized or receive medication."

"Tell me about the medication," I say.

* * *

><p>Mason calls and says he should be at my apartment in fifteen minutes.<p>

I try to make myself look as beautiful as I can.

Which is hard.

I'm going to try and eat something again.

The only reason why I'm trying is because I realize that Mason last saw me when I was healthy, and happy, and I needed the energy in order to keep up the pretense I was planning of putting.

But I couldn't do it, I couldn't hold it in, because when I looked into the mirror I saw that I was so big already and I disposed of it.

Maybe I should have started out with something smaller, easier, like crackers, but I can't eat anything right now because of my bad mood.

I was diagnosed with yet another illness.

Paranoid schizophrenia.

I don't like thinking about it.

I can't do anything about my body in fifteen minutes, and I can't put on any make up to cover up my bruises, scars and burns all over my thighs, arms, stomach and back caused from months of self harm, so I cover those up with a pair of black skinny jeans and a long sleeved red sweater. I leave my hair since I didn't think it looked that bad.

I spend the rest of the time playing with my new medication.

There is a knock at my door.

I know it's Mason.

I take a deep breath, walk over to the door and open it.

* * *

><p><strong>Mason<strong>

I somehow manage to keep my jaw off the floor.

She's so thin.

She smiles, and I can tell it is a tired one, and I smile back, hoping that it doesn't show any of my shock.

She pulls me in for a hug, and when I put my arms around her, I resist the urge to cringe.

I feel her bones, almost all of them, her spine juts out and I can feel her too-prominent collar bones press into mine and she feels so fragile I'm scared to squeeze too hard. I let go after a moment. I clear my throat.

"I missed you, Rose," I smile. And I have. We were good friends back in high school, but our own, separate lives just got in the way of our communication.

She smiles again, and it seems genuine, "I missed you, too. So, do you want to get this started?"

I nod, and walk over to a table in her apartment.

It's relatively small, and I am able to see almost all rooms from the entrance. When I first entered, right in front of me was a living room, and to the left there's a small, clean open kitchen and to the right it breaks off into a bedroom with a door facing me, so there is another room facing it but I can't see. In between the small piece of wall separating the kitchen and the living room, there's a table up against it, and that is the one I set my stuff on.

I brought make up, to make it seem like she hurts herself, and I'm going to shoot the photos in black and white.

"As I told you before, I'm doing my assignment on self harm and mental illness, so you're going to have to act a little insane, okay?" I turn to her and laugh.

Her eyes widen for a moment but then she swallows.

"Um, okay," she agrees reluctantly.

I frown.

"Rose, are you having second thoughts about this? Because if the subject makes you uncomfortable you don't have to do this for me," I say, and I mean it, because she's my friend and I don't want to make her do anything that makes her uncomfortable. This is an unpleasant subject, I don't even like thinking about it myself, that's the reason why I chose this in the first place.

"No! No, I wasn't thinking that at all. I'm just slightly worried about my acting skills, that's all," she jokes, and tries to lighten things, "what's all the make up for, Ashford? You trying to say I'm ugly?" She winks.

I laugh, "not at all, you're absolutely smoking, Hathaway."

She bites her lip and says nothing.

I wonder if I mean what I said.

I mean, in school I had a bit of a crush on her, because she truly was beautiful. I would get butterflies thinking about the softness of her long dark hair, and how soft her skin was, and her lively personality.

And now...I don't know.

She has bags under her eyes. Her skin is too worn for someone her age.

Her personality seems to be dimmed.

And let's not forget that she's gotten so thin I can see her bones through her sweater and it seems that balloons could carry her away.

Her features haven't changed, though, and her hair seems the same.

I wonder if she's sick.

Then I realize I've been staring.

I clear my throat.

"I'm going to start with the self harm photos, that's why I have all of this make up. You're going to have to take off the sweater and put on a shirt that reveals a lot of skin – don't worry, I won't show anything you're uncomfortable with showing. But I need to show bruises and scars, so maybe, I don't know, a tank top? I'd prefer a bra, a white one, but I don't want to push you into anything. It's just that I want this to be totally natural, raw, heartbreaking – I don't want to hold anything back."

She whispers something, not looking at me.

"Hmm?"

"I said, you don't need make up," her voice is still a whisper, just a slightly louder one.

Now I'm curious.

"Why don't you need the make up?" I inquire.

"I'll go take the sweater off," she says, and walks into her bedroom, leaving me here.

She's not wearing a bra at all. She walks out of the bedroom, covering her bare torso with a white bed sheet. Her hair is put up beautifully in a large messy bun, thick strands falling out and shaping her face.

Her walls are a dark beige. I move the table from where it is situated up against the piece of wall in between her kitchen and living room and set up everything I have brought, starting with the lights and my tripod.

"Against there?" She says softly, gesturing toward the wall I've cleared.

I clear my throat, though not from attraction.

Though Rose is definitely beautiful, I think my high school crush is gone.

"Yes," I answer.

She nods, and begins to walk toward the wall.

I pick my camera up off the table, and set it on the tripod.

I set the effect to B&W. Then I put on a timing effect, to take a picture after a specific amount of time has passed. I want a final, candid shot of her, so I secretly set it to snap the photo ten minutes from now, a feature hard to find. I predict that the photoshoot will take ten minutes, and I'll probably forget setting it up, so the picture that'll come out will be a surprise.

She walks over to the wall, in a weird way, she's kind of sidestepping, as if she doesn't want to show me her back.

I don't understand.

I said she didn't have to wear a bra.

Why did she decide to wear nothing at all?

She stands against the wall in front of me for a moment, not looking at me, and then she drops the part of the sheet covering her back.

She turns.

And I gasp.

As I felt before, her bones are clearly visible, but it's even worse without any clothing on. She's still wearing the black jeans, but I can see everything on the top half.

Her ribs are visible, every single one of them, and her spine is like a snake slithering under her skin when she stretches. But that is not even the worse part.

The worst part would have to be the bruises.

Nasty, dark purple and blue rings and harsh blotches take her back, so many it looks like a disease, but I can see that the most of them are in the shapes of fingers.

Right under her ribs are deep, jagged scars, nine of them, as if she had taken both her hands and put them on her waist, and scratched herself.

Five red scratches placed evenly apart are in between her shoulder blades, coming up right under her neck.

On the back of her upper arms, as if she had hugged herself, are four scabbed over crescents, the size of fingernails.

And lastly, on her lower back, there are two smooth, long lines, too smooth to be done by fingers, stretching across from hip to hip.

Like someone took a razor in each hand and dragged it across.

"Oh," I breathe, my voice barely audible, "Rose, what's happened to you?"

Her bony arms hug the blanket closer to her body but her back is still bared, and she looks at me with tears in her beautiful dark eyes, and whispers,

"I'm depressed, disordered, and sick."

She looks away, back down to the floor, and she's facing slightly to the right, so I can see the tears that are streaming her cheeks.

She's there, bared, cold, vulnerable, and crying in front of me.

And I don't say anything, don't step towards her, because I know she doesn't want me to. I just take my camera off my tripod, bring it up to my face, focus the lens, and capture art in what I think is its rawest form, because I know that she'd be mad at me if I didn't.

* * *

><p>Stan respects that I won't tell him who it is in my photos. He didn't exactly tear up upon my handing in of the assignment, but he nodded and said "while the topic of eating disorders does not make me vulnerable, I can feel the power coming off of it already. It looks promising, but I hope the rest of it doesn't disappoint." That was fine with me. He could fail me if he wanted, that wasn't what I cared about.<p>

What I cared about was Rose. The girl who I had crushed on all throughout high school, the woman who had always been one of my most trusted friends. I felt angry with myself, because I had let this happen to her, that I was completely unaware. Maybe I could have helped somehow. Maybe all she needed was someone to talk to. And I wasn't there. I had failed her, as a friend. I voiced all of this to Rose, too. After I took my pictures, I left her there to cry and made way into her kitchen. I found some green tea bags resting on the counter and put some water to boil in a kettle that was already on the stove. I then walked past her, went into her bedroom and – not even registering what it looked like – spotted a thick, green sweater resting on her bed. I grabbed it and made my way to her. Gently putting my hand on her wrist, I led her to the couch, while she sobbed. I finished making the tea, and when I came back I saw that she did not put the sweater on yet. I did it for her, careful not to look at the marks that marred her body. Once that was on, I cradled her body to mine, taking the chance of touching her. She sobbed everything she had left into my shirt, then lapsed into a temporary silence.

We talked, then. Rose talked and I listened and I listened _hard _because I began to feel emotions that were inexplicable and beyond unpleasant. Then she was quiet and I wasn't speaking but she was listening, anyway. The silence became unbearable for me so I began to talk about these inexplicable feelings and say how sorry I was that I wasn't there for her, because I should have been, and I will never forgive myself for not being there, but at one point she stopped listening and I stopped talking and let her think.

She suddenly reached over after a moment, and brought her lips to my cheek. In high school I would have died for a kiss from Rose, and savoured it forever. Now, I hated that she did it, because I knew that that was her way of saying that she had forgiven me. I was not to be forgiven. She was alone, and I could have been there for her. But I wasn't. I would be now, though. She won't be alone anymore, I'll make sure of it. We hold each other fiercely, me sighing and apologizing and her muttering about getting help.

A snap makes us both jolt, and I jerk my head towards the source. My camera, angled towards us on the couch – I must have bumped it without even realizing – snapped the photo I set up ten minutes prior. I walk over to take a look at it.

There's Rose – a green bundle, with wild dark hair, and a hidden face in my shoulder. Then there's me – holding her back just as tight, my lips open in a frozen promise I intend to keep. We look slightly unsure. A little afraid. More than a little shaken up. But we look hopeful, too. Determined. Supportive. Even in our darkest time, a time that no doubt promises weak moments and pain and suffering, we look like we're more or less ready for it. Even though the physical components - the colours, the lines, the light - is all perfect, it's not pretty, not at all. We look aware that things will probably get ugly. And we aren't doing anything incredible – not sculpting, dancing, or writing poetry, just sitting and holding each other. Despite anything Stan might have said, we don't need to be doing something big to express what we feel. That's not art. Being human is an art. The way that despair and hope can be interwoven despite being polar opposites and both be necessary for a life worth living is a downright masterpiece. Art, in its rawest form.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So, yeah. Thanks to Hol, for reviewing and reminding me of the story's existence so I could repost it. I'm sorry it took so long. Also, thank you to everyone else who reviewed. Your feedback is what I appreciate the most, whether it be constructive criticism or just commenting on the story.**


End file.
